


Une chemise de batiste

by emmaliza



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Depression, F/M, Gen, M/M, Post-Canon, this is what happens when I have scarborough fair stuck in my head at 3am, this just in: marius's life continues to be hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 16:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1860. Marius fails to write a letter, goes to town with his family, gives a thief a hundred and twenty pounds, and stops by a lake. Such is life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Une chemise de batiste

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this was initially inspired by a prompt about Marius missing Courfeyrac after his death, but it got really out of hand.
> 
> Warnings for depression, suicidal thinking, character death and the Great Famine of Ireland.

Perhaps it is an irony that after everything, they have come to live in England.

Marius sighs, blue-black ink falling from his pen. He is ruining this sheet of paper. He knows he must write a reply to Corinne, who still faithfully updates him on her life in Paris, as would any good daughter. He is a grandfather now, he knows that, to a young boy named Luc whom he has never met (and the name means nothing to him, which makes him a little sad). Corinne was barely eighteen and newly married when he was exiled; he recalls, at the time, he did not quite understand that she would not go with them. After all, the rest of his children did -- even Jerome, whom he has not seen now in five years (he wonders if the boy will return, as he did to his grandfather, but somehow he doubts it without quite knowing why). It was only once they were on the boat and he was trying to soothe Ninette's sea-sickness and ignore his own, did he realise he may never see his eldest daughter again. He wept then. He wept, and his children followed him; Cosette pressed his hand with tears in her eyes and steel in her soul.

He does not weep now, as he struggles for what commentary he can possibly give on Corinne's happy, married, Parisian life.

The sliver of light that streams through the door widens, and despite having that as a warning he jumps when he hears a knock. "Marius, darling," says Cosette, a smile on her face, and he gives a small smile in return. "Why are you sitting here in the dark? Everything that happens to your eyesight is your own fault you know."

Indeed his eyesight has degenerated over the decades, both from years of work that involves reading and writing, and simply from age. He will be fifty soon after all. Cosette does not await an answer, simply charges forward and pulls open the curtains. The midmorning sun rushes in and makes him wince, yet he cannot bring himself to fault her for it. "Ah, that's better," she states, and he admires her profile in the light. Age has not degraded Cosette's beauty at all, and despite everything, a radiant happiness still blossoms from her very soul. Perhaps if he really wished to he could see a wrinkle or two upon his wife's visage, but why would he ever, when her cheerful grin is still the most wonderous sight on God's Earth? Marius likes to look at Cosette, which is more than he can say for himself. He feels as if age has left him wilted and disheveled. He avoids his own eye in the mirror when he shaves, and usually receives a cut on the jaw for it -- not that he hasn't always done that to himself (though no matter how often it happens, he still flinches at the sight of blood on his skin). Yet Cosette still looks at him as if he is the handsome young man she fell in love with, and he wants to thank her for it. The words get caught in his throat. How do you thank someone for loving you?

She looks to him. "What are you writing?" she asks.

"Corinne. She -- wrote me a letter." For whatever reason, Corinne keeps up separate correspondences with her parents, and Marius rather suspects her and Cosette's is rather more lively than her and his own. But he thinks it is not his place to pry. But that is Cosette's nature; she is a ray of sunlight, and can beam across oceans and through the filthy streets of Paris (although they are not so filthy now, or so he's heard; almost immediately after he was expelled, they worked on making the streets wide and new, fatal to rebels like him). Hope is embedded in her delicate, yet steady handwriting. Meanwhile Marius feels diluted; like some part of himself goes into his scrawl and he loses it forever, and he does not really have parts to spare. But he cannot simply stop writing. Then he would lose Corinne. Then he would be shunning Corinne. What sort of father does that?

(Perhaps the same sort of father who left his daughter close to nine years ago.)

"Ah," says Cosette. "Struggling for a response?"

He doesn't answer. Cosette, angel that she is, does not judge him, does not sigh at him, does not accuse him of anything, but gently pries the abortive letter away from him (it is soaked with ink now; it looks like a child's first experiments with art). "Say what, let's go to town. With Ninette and Marianne. We'll see the market, buy some of the strawberries you like, and when you come back you'll feel better and writing will be easier. Honestly, with the amount of time you spend cooped up in the dark in here, I fully expect one of those Romantics to write some gothic novel about you one day."

She kisses him on the forehead and he leans toward it, like a child or pet. "Yes, I'd like that," he murmurs. She departs, and he sighs once more at the paper, softened with such an overabundance of ink. Gently, he pulls the paper until the weakened fibres come apart. It is easy and quiet.

He is avoiding writing this letter. He should be thankful Cosette has given him an excuse to do so.

-

Ninette loves to go to town, being a social creature, who craves the attention of, well, anyone. Angelique was the same. Marianne, meanwhile, is shy, like him at that age -- he named her in May 1848, in a fit of patriotic joy; he did not stop to think he was giving his daughter a name not completely dissimilar to his own. She is very like him in many ways. Poor creature. He deeply, deeply sympathises with her reluctance to be a social creature; truly he shares it, but has had near a decade of simply having to overcome it. In Paris Cosette was the one who knew how to behave, how to make friends, how to charm, and he -- he does not like to say he hid behind her, but he did. However Cosette, try as she might, has never quite been able to master the English language beyond a basic level, and so Marius has had to compensate. She says she does not mind, and they do have friends who speak French themselves. But it still makes Marius sad also.

(He feels guilty that he has put her in this situation where being able to speak to people other than him is a rare luxury. It was not intentional. When he was younger he found the idea that they could exist as one, take possession of one another's souls, romantic somehow, but now he is old and weary and feels as if he damages her by trying to share himself. Perhaps he always did, but was simply too naive to notice. It would not surprise him.)

The ride to town is uneventful; Ninette and Cosette chat, Marianne reads. That is her hobby, and his too. He notices she is being very careful with the book she holds, slowly turning each page for fear of ripping it. He doesn't know why. His faltering eyesight fails him; he can't read the title, nor can he see whether the book is particularly old. It would feel odd to ask, even his own daughter, so his curiosity is left unsated. He hopes they do not see him stare. But he can see red, and if he squints, he can make out the glint of gold binding. If he recalls correctly, it is a book of fairytales which they have had for many years, which they brought with them from Paris, and that Nicolas used to read to Marianne when she was little.

He, Nicolas and Marianne were always the readers in the family; Angelique would snatch Nicolas's books whilst he was in the middle of them, hold them above his head. "Brother, you are so boring! All moths and wars and things! Come, dance with me, do something fun!" And Nicolas would make snide comments about her immaturity, while Marius rather forgot his responsible father role in the midst of panicking that she would break something. But she never did. She would give Nicolas his book back, ask him to read something to her, "if you find it so fascinating." Sometimes they would curl up together on the couch, going through a book, her making clever comments all the while. Sometimes they would fall asleep curled up together. The entire rest of the family did engage at teasing at that point. Angelique was kinder when Nicolas was reading to Marianne, simply joining them and putting her arms around her little sister without a word.

Marianne is always most careful with the books Nicolas used to read to her.

He averts his eyes, gazing out the window. The fields are muddy, rained upon, far from pleasing to the eye. Despite himself, he cannot acquire a fondness for English weather. He remembers when he was young and his grandfather would take him down south -- "You're so skinny, a little sun will either save you or kill you. Don't really know which."

He was so sad as a child, took all his grandfather's jokes as expressions of contempt. He only learned better very late, and had barely four years of reconciliation with the man before he passed away. It left him with some uncertainty as to how to actually think of the man who raised him. But by then he was raising his own child, and so pushed his confusion aside to focus on the life before him, not behind.

Corinne never remembered her grandfather.

"Ow!" Ninette suddenly exclaims as their carriage experiences a particularly violent jolt. He looks at her with concern, but she shakes her head as if she is fine. So he looks away. He stares at the wall, deeply uncertain as to why he does so when three of the people he loves most in the world are right before him.

The curtains that hang on the carriage window are a deep grey, close to black, and from the edge of the one closest to him a loose thread emerges. He grabs it and winds it so the dark curls around his finger, and ponders.

-

Mrs. Porter who sells fruits and vegetables in a little stall at market is a friend of his, which is good, for Marius still does not make friends easily. He may be fifty but she is seventy, and still treats him like a little boy; ruffles his hair and smacks his hand if he tries to take a strawberry without her express permission. He finds it embarrassing, but pleasant. His wife and daughters laugh at him. She is a simple (he doesn't want to say poor) woman who doesn't speak a word of French, so her and Cosette's communication is somewhat limited, but they are fond of each other nonetheless. Mostly due to mutual amusement at his sake. He considers it a worthy sacrifice. Ninette is always polite to the woman, but tends to get distracted while everyone else talks, staring at young men across the street. "Keep an eye on your girl, you," Mrs. Porter tells him with a smile and a wink. Ninette is hardly a girl anymore though; she is twenty years old, older than Corinne was when she married, and Marius expects her to do the same soon. Marianne shies, as she always does, but she manages to talk -- even laugh and joke. Marius holds her hand encouragingly, remembering such crippling discomfort in the presence of all people. Marianne smiles at him.

Mrs. Porter also sells flowers -- she sells what she grows, basically. They are beautiful, and yet Marius can't stand to look at them for more than a fleeting second. When he looks he remembers another old friend who loved flowers, who loved flowers when everything else he loved was taken away from him. Who probably still loved flowers when he fell against the grimy city pavement. And then he thinks of his father, and even after all this time to think of his father is sublime agony. He cannot indulge it like he did in his youth, where there was almost something noble in his masochism, not now he is a responsible man with a wife and children. So he ignores it. It isn't as difficult as it seems.

After leaving Mrs. Porter they go to lunch at a cafe. He remembers when they first came to England it was so difficult to find tables that would sit them all -- often there would only be six seats, so little Marianne would have to sit in someone's lap, something Angelique and Ninette would squabble over. Ninette would win as a matter of age, being twelve to Angelique's almost-eight ("Seven, you are seven," Ninette would say snidely) and hence possessing a body more built to withstand the weight of a growing three year old. Nicolas would sigh and shake his head. Then Angelique would demand he sit in her lap instead, as they were still short one chair, and he was the second youngest. He would be reluctant, but swayed by her impeccable logic. Marius wanted to point out that Angelique was only one year older than Nicolas and would probably grow very uncomfortable very quickly, but Cosette kicked him when he tried, punishing him for interrupting the cuteness. She sat to his left, and Jean-Georges to his right. Ninette and Angelique faced one another, competing over who could earn more affection from their respective sibling. And Jerome sat across, distant, eying a presence who was not there. Corinne.

Marius misses Jerome. No matter what Cosette tells him, he knows it was his fault. Jerome would agree, though perhaps not for quite the same reason. He blamed Marius for his rebelling, making them leave Paris, making them leave Corinne. He became an ardent pacifist, to whom uprising against the regime was not simply the reason for a lot of their suffering, but a moral fault. When he was seventeen, he and Marius got into a fight: "You abandoned my sister for nothing but a treacherous dream! The Emperor was right to exile you! You shot men in the streets and not once felt guilt for it; you are nothing but a murderer! And so are your dead friends!"

Marius struck him. He thinks on that with shame and regret. But he could not bare the thought of letting anyone speak of the men who he had loved and lost that way without being punished; it was only after that he realised who he had struck. He desperately tried to stammer out an apology, but it would not come, and Jerome simply stared at him defiantly before telling Cosette he was retiring to bed early this evening. Marius, distressed and confused, soon did the same. He awoke the next morning to Cosette sobbing over a letter Jerome wrote her, saying that he was sorry, that he still loved her and his siblings, but he could not stand to live in the same house as 'that man' anymore. That was the last they ever heard of him. He did not return when... Perhaps he does not know. Would Jerome have seen it in the papers? Was it in the papers?

He has finished his meal and is almost prepared to leave when Ninette speaks. "My purse!" she exclaims. "I've been robbed!"

Cosette frowns. Marianne gasps. He blinks, until he sees a figure flying past the cafe window. Without a word he gets up and follows it.

It surprises him he can still run so well, though he doesn't have to run far; he catches her hiding in an alleyway. As gently as he can, he lays a hand on her shoulder. She jumps. "I don't want to hurt you!" he says. "I simply want my daughter's purse back. Please."

She sniffs. She has reddish golden hair and dark eyes, a thin, hollow frame, and a bitter look. "Right. Rich girl like that will be missing so much."

It takes him only a moment to place her accent, and chooses against mentioning it. He's certain plenty of people have attacked and degraded her for her heritage, for him to speak of it, even with respect, would probably anger or frighten her, or both. He is French after all, he is not always looked upon fondly either -- though not in the same way. Arriving at the end of the famine taught him the extent to which he had not truly suffered English prejudice, not in the slightest. In this moment, the greatest courtesy he can show Ireland is to ignore it.

Still, her voice makes him makes him think of the first time he heard that brogue, or the first traces of it. Courfeyrac did not speak with an accent as such, just an odd lilt that Marius picked up on almost immediately, but could not ask about for two months for fear of offending him. He knew very little of Ireland back then. Once he mustered the courage to inquire, Courfeyrac laughed and explained, how his father, a rich but lonely widower, had gone to Ireland for business and met a peasant woman. He fell in love, and took her home to France and riches. Marius, ever the romantic, was charmed. It seemed like a fairytale. Courfeyrac told him he was adorable for believing in such things, and Marius blushed.

"What is your name?" he asks the young woman, perhaps because if he doesn't speak soon she will take advantage of his reverie and run away.

"...Amy Macniadh."

"Well, Amy, how much is there in that purse? Twenty pounds I wager? Here, have a hundred," he passes it to her easily, then pauses. "Plus ten for the bag itself." He has no idea if Ninette's purse is worth ten pounds, but it seems as good a number as any.

She blinks, holding both the purse and the money. "Are you... buying off me something I stole from you?"

"I..." He breaks into a giggle. "Yes, I suppose I am."

He looks her in the eye. He notices one of hers is slightly sunken. He thinks of Eponine. He thinks of everything. He aches.

"Fine. Christ, your poor bastard. Don't want to know what the hell is going through your head that makes that seem like a good idea." She hands him the bag and he smiles.

"Thank you. Well. Good day to you, mademoiselle."

"...And to you, sir." She runs off through the alleyway, disappearing into the shadows. He sighs, and starts to return to the cafe.

-

Partway through the carriage ride, they come to a stop, and the driver appears in their window. The rain had caused problems on their path, so they had to take a slight detour. Marius hadn't even noticed it was raining.

Now he has thought of Courfeyrac, thanks to that young woman, he finds he cannot stop. He feels as if he has been doing so all day, though he knows that is not true. Corinne. He named Corinne for Courfeyrac, of course he did. He and Cosette had an agreement their first son would be named for both their fathers, and he was, but before that they had a daughter and it seemed only natural for Marius to name her after his late best friend. Then again, he does not know why Cosette agreed. She never knew Courfeyrac. Was it a kindness to him, then? Didn't she have someone she wished to name a daughter after also? What of her mother, to whom she prayed like most would to the Virgin Mary; what of her?

Well he supposed Ninette, in a way, was named after Fantine. As she was Eponine. Whenever Marius used to mention Eponine to Cosette, a certain fog would come over her eyes like she was struggling to see something far away, and if he asked why, she would admit she did not know. He used to say he would help her find out one day. He never did.

Yet again he sits next to the curtain with the loose thread. He misses Courfeyrac, he realises with such a sudden ache he knows Cosette sees him flinch. He has done so for thirty years. How could he possibly not? Courfeyrac was the first friend he ever had, the first person who smiled upon him and ruffled his hair and made him feel like everything was fine. Like he was fine. Courfeyrac was, by his nature a guarantee of happiness and prosperity.

And then he died.

Marius knows he did not appreciate Courfeyrac when he was alive, shying from his teasing, avoiding him when he was in a bad mood. He anguishes over it. Perhaps he is being punished. For his ingratitude toward the people who loved him, his fate is to suffer the loss of all of them. But no, after all, any God who punishes him for hurting people by hurting those very same people rather more severely by killing them, is a terribly hypocritical one, and Marius doesn't want to believe in a hypocritical God. He wants this to make sense, he wants there to be a reason for all the lives lost. That's why he had to fight in 1851, whatever the consequences.

He looks at Marianne. When she was born, he treated her as proof, that it had not all been for nothing and that the Republic would save them all. In his addled mind, she was the Republic. He was wrong.

So why is she still here?

Their carriage comes to a sudden stop. He's almost flung from his seat, and Marianne is. "Ah!"

"You alright, darling?" Cosette helps her back up, and Marianne nods, blushing, embarrassed.

"What's going on?" asks Ninette, and as if summoned, the driver appears in the doorway.

"Sorry about that. We've encountered a muddy patch and the wheels have gotten stuck; if sent off my assistant to go find a branch or something to leaver it up. I'm very sorry for the inconvenience, Sir, Madam."

"It is fine. Don't worry," Cosette says in her thick accent and with her dazzling smile.

Marius remembers how Courfeyrac used to smile, with the light of the sun and heat of an open fire embodied in him. He was a comfort. Marius, in his darkest moments, would turn to Courfeyrac, for he had no-one else. It was Courfeyrac who would come home, see Marius laying upon his mattress in a state of absolute despair and say nothing, but lay next to, wrap his arms around him comfortingly and give him some sort of peace, enough to sleep. If only Courfeyrac could come comfort him now.

Would he have lain with Courfeyrac in another way, the way he lays with his wife? It seems obscene to think of such a thing, with darling Cosette right there before him, but he does not blush. He loved Courfeyrac, or he loves him now, as much as he has ever loved anyone, even Cosette. He never felt the urge to touch the man -- even when he lived in a nation where such things were legal. But Courfeyrac would always joke about it, about the oddness of their relationship, "I believe half the people I know think you're a rentboy," and make Marius blush. That was his habit. He found Marius's shyness sweet, endearing; one of Marius's greatest faults, he embraced and adored. Marius didn't realise.

Truth be told, knowing what he knows now he would. He would make love to Courfeyrac. Not out of any sort of lust, but simply if Courfeyrac asked. He would offer himself easily, as he would offer anything Courfeyrac wanted of him. Anything, just _please don't leave me. Please. I need you._

Courfeyrac was everything. That is why it is not an infidelity to Cosette to think of sharing his bed, because Courfeyrac was Cosette. He was the hope Cosette gave Marius, the light and the brilliance, the belief that the world held a place for him. He was Eponine, willing to do anything for him. He was the Amis, their centre, their heart. He was Marius's father, determined above all else to protect him. He was Corinne, built into the walls of Paris. He was Paris. He was Angelique, a dazzling sun.

He looks at Ninette. If Angelique was a sun then she is a star, and it should be the same but it isn't. Marius loves her terribly, yet he knows what she is now is not who she is. For three years she has tried so hard to become Angelique. Marius doesn't want that, doesn't want one of his daughters to replace another, but he doesn't know how to stop her.

Has he violated Courfeyrac? After all, it is not as if he thought all this at the time. In his despair he has infused Courfeyrac with the memory of all he has lost, ever, and perhaps that leaves little room to grieve for Courfeyrac himself, the boy who took him in and gave him his coat and laughed in his face. Marius is so confused by everything. It has been thirty years. Thirty years, and not a moment's rest. Sometimes he wishes Jean Valjean left him there to die. Sometimes he feels as if he did. He feels like the ghost of their failed revolution, lingering forever and yet accomplishing nothing.

Four years ago Jean-Georges joined the army and Marius despaired. He despaired because he joined the English army, he bound himself to this nation, the nation that was meant to be their place of exile. If Marius ever can return to France, he cannot take his eldest son with him. He cannot take any of his sons with him. He despaired because of the fear, the fear that yet another young man he loved would be killed by men in uniform. He despaired at the thought of Jean being one of those men, taking away the friends, sons, husbands of others.

He can't blame Jean for any of it. His nation is his own choice. His willingness to give his life is admirable. And he has shot, killed, like Jerome said, as did so many of the men he loved; the father who gave everything for him, who he named his son for, was a soldier and bore the consequences. Jerome was wrong. They are all more than murderers.

Jean is married now; Lilly Westerfield was her name. An English girl from a wealthy industrial family. They expect a child soon; Cosette says she has a feeling it will be a girl. It is a perfectly fine life. Just not one Marius feels he has any place in.

Suddenly Cosette squeezes his hand. "Marius." But she is not looking at him; she cannot tear his eyes away from the window. Worried, he follows her line of sight. He feels sick. So that is why it was so muddy.

They have stopped outside a lake, one that looks wretched and filthy and flooded now, but in the summer months, oh, it is crystal clear and beautiful. Three years ago, he, Cosette and the four children -- Ninette, Angelique, Nicolas, Marianne -- they went out to picnic by the lake. It was warm afternoon, and Marius remembers feeling very happy. Angelique and Nicolas went to explore in the trees nearby, and when they returned were carrying a small wooden boat. It was old, but in fair enough condition; Angelique had the most incredible grin on her face. "We're going to go sail this!" Angelique announced, and Nicolas sighed as if he knew there was no point in resisting.

"Be careful!" Cosette said, but she did not really worry.

Marius lay down with half an eye on Nicolas and Angelique rowing and squabbling. He felt tired, but content. Cosette lay down next to him, rested her head on his shoulder. Marianne asked Ninette for help pronouncing some of the words in her book.

They heard a shout. "Angelique, you'll rock the boat!"

"Nonsense, don't be so paranoid! Come on, join me!" Angelique was upon her feet, starting to dance. Golden curls, pinks skirts spinning around her, she was a sight.

Then she slipped.

"Angelique!" Nicolas shouted as his sister fell over the side of the boat, flailing. He jumped after to try and save her.

It was no use. They both drowned. Jean-Georges returned for the funerals, Lilly by his side, plastering himself to Cosette and sobbing his eyes out. They received a letter from Corinne that could barely be read it was so soaked in tears. Yet never any word for Jerome. Could his son possibly hate him so much he would simply ignore the deaths of his brother and sister? No, better to think he didn't know. He doesn't know. To think anything else would drive Marius mad.

His reverie is interrupted by the sound of Marianne sobbing. "I'm sorry," she chokes through her tears. "I just..."

Marius quickly wraps his arms around her, kisses her hair. "It's alright," he says. "It's alright love, it's alright."

He feels awful for this, but part of him is glad she cries. For he wants to cry, but he feels he cannot. Marianne takes after him, everyone has always said so, so when she cries it feels a little like he does too. The only catharsis he finds he finds through her. It's selfish, it's cruel, the guilt bites as much as the grief. All he can do is pull her in closer, try and comfort her, not let himself fall apart vicariously through her.

Cosette is stony-faced, silent, tears welling up in her eyes. Marius wants to say something to her, but he knows not what. Ninette takes a deep breath. "I'm going out there," she says, rushing out the carriage door; Marius is shocked.

"Wait, Ninette--"

Cosette shouts after her, but she has already disappeared. Marius withdraws from Marianne with an apologetic look, and she nods understandingly. Somehow he knows it is his responsibility to go follow Ninette.

His boots sink into the mud and he looks to the water's grimy surface. For a second, he feels the urge to step in. It still scares him when he has thoughts like that, even though he has had them for years and years, even before, well, everything. It would not surprise him if one day he chose to kill himself. But he does not know what could push him to do it. He is no longer the boy who wanted to die when he thought he had lost Cosette; he still loves her fiercely, with desperation, with the passion with which a drowning man loves his life raft. But if he lost her... he would no longer be shocked. He has lost so much he would no longer have enough to lose everything in losing her.

He shakes the thought away. He has to find Ninette. She is not around the lake's border, and so he ducks into the woods, where the bark is black and the leaves are bottle green. It is so dark here. Courfeyrac gave him a green coat and he lost it, kept it for twenty years but left it behind when they had to flee France. He had long since gotten too fat for it. Yet, anguish swells in him again.

The sight of Ninette's auburn hair and pale skin is a relief. "Ninette!" he calls out to her without stopping to think whether that is the best idea. Luckily, she does not run. Instead she turns to look at him, and winces. Her eyes are red; she has been crying. "I'm sorry, Papa," she says. "I just... couldn't..."

"It's okay, I understand." He steps forward and hugs her, for that's all he can do. When she was little he used to be able to pick her up and spin her around, but not anymore; she's tall, almost as tall as him. He buries his head against her shoulder without thinking about it. He soon realises better; he is supposed to be comforting her, not making her endure his despair. Yet he can't bring himself to stop. He must lean against something, or he feels like he will keel over.

Ninette pulls back, and smiles at him. It's odd and forced and he knows she has no reason to do so. "So, I suppose I win the prize for who was going to have the greatest attack of grief and angst?"

He flinches. Ninette tries so hard to be the hope, the light, the joy in their lives. She tries so hard to be what they need. He wants to tell her that it's not her duty, not her responsibility; she doesn't need to save everyone. She doesn't need to save him. But he can't, because -- he's selfish, and can't bring himself to tell her to extinguish one of his last sources of hope. It is only her and Cosette left. For thirty years he has lived with no more light than a flickering candle, and if the candle goes out--

For a second he thinks he feels Courfeyrac's hand brush against his shoulder, sad, concerned, frustrated. But it goes away, and Marius feels so strange. He is lost confused. He almost sees Courfeyrac in Ninette's reddened eye, as he does in Cosette's smile, as he did in Angelique's wild dances. He named Angelique for Enjolras, all gold curls and commanding presence, but she was a whimsical creature; her charm and vivacity, that was all Courfeyrac (and Cosette. May Courfeyrac be Cosette?). Everything is everything and Marius still feels like the sad pup Courfeyrac dragged in off the streets one evening.

He notices something. "Ninette, your hand is bleeding."

"Oh, yes, I scratched it on a branch. Silly reason." He grabs it and holds it before his chest. The sight of blood on her skin makes him want to be sick. "It's not as bad as it looks Papa, don't worry. We can bandage it when we get home."

"No, wait," and she's probably right, but he couldn't stand himself if he just let his daughter bleed without doing anything to stop it; he undoes his cravat and fastens it around her wrist. It's pale blue promptly turns bright red.


End file.
